


Wishes

by ButterflyGhost



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, limited pov, slight kid fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is not sure what he's seeing is real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishes

****  
  
So, what? You think I was never going to work it out? Yeah, right. Of course I figured it out. I might be short sighted, but I’m not blind for fuck’s sake. Within a month of the Vecchio gig I knew exactly where I stood. You think it was something they’d have told me when they were getting me ready to cover for the guy, but then maybe they didn’t know.

 

Or maybe they did, and just thought it didn’t matter. Maybe they just thought it would be funny to throw me in the deep end and see if I could swim.

 

Yeah, right. It did matter. It does matter. Idiots, of course I had to know.

 

So there it is. The big secret, what makes Fraser tick. Fraser and Vecchio were doing the nasty. That’s not just me being paranoid. It’s just putting the clues together.

 

I mean, the clues were there, right from the start. Fraser invaded my castle, messed with my stuff, tried to get a read on me. He was clearly obsessed with Vecchio. So, what could I do? I retaliated. That’s the word - the military word. I retaliated. I invaded his office/bedsit/dive. And you know, he never stopped me. Never changed the locks so my credit card didn’t let me in.

 

But first time I did it, first time I invaded his crib, he didn’t even know I was doing it. Not a clue. We’d worked a couple of cases together, and I was just itching to find out what he was hiding from me. Nobody could be that polite, could they? He had to be hiding something.

 

So on the Friday he got back from his ‘mystery trip’ he went off to read bedtime stories to kiddies on the cancer ward - one kiddy in particular. A last girl’s dying request, apparently, to see a real live Mountie - she’d always wanted to go to Canada - her Dad was Canadian, he’d been in their military - but she wasn’t well enough to go. So instead of her going to Canada, Canada came to her. She got three of ‘em, Fraser, Turnbull and Thatcher. In full uniform. With balloons, and chocolate, a bedtime story and a white wolf licking her ears and gazing at her like she’d hung the moon. (She’d fed Dief cringlers, since she couldn’t eat so well at that point.) Frase was perfect apparently. He brought his guitar, and they all had a sing-along, little girl and all the kids on the cancer ward joining in while the parents and Turnbull tried not to cry. I saw it on the evening news - slow news day.

 

Not a bad way for the kid to go. Fraser hung around after she fell asleep, sat with her parents three days, till the end. She died happy, according to her family and doctors. Nice write up in the local paper, and donations to the hospital went up with all the good publicity. Fraser never talked about it; if I asked he’d just pinch his nose and give one of his not happy smiles. But the little girl - Sally - she just slid away in her sleep, still smiling.

 

Well, I couldn’t have joined ‘em. I just couldn’t. For one, I’m not a Mountie, for another I’d have broken down and blubbed like a baby. Poor little girl. She’d had such pretty hair before it all fell out. Fraser has pictures of her on his desk now - we all went to the funeral. Carried the coffin for her even - teeny little white coffin. Turnbull and Fraser carrying, Thatcher walking up front, parents behind. Everyone in ceremonial dress.

 

In Fraser’s picture of her she’s sitting propped up on her bed, wearing her princess dress and Fraser’s stetson, far too big for her little head. She’s surrounded by grinning Mounties, even if Turnbull does look a little tearful. Dief has his head on her pillow, and she’s hugging her rabbit; looks like she’s died and gone to heaven.

 

Which, you know, maybe she has. She never did anything wrong, so why not? Whatever. She died anyway. I don’t know about the other thing. Heaven I mean. Huh. If it exists it’s a long way away. But then she did look like an angel.

 

So, anyway, to cut a long story short, yeah. That was when I found out that Fraser and Vecchio were bumping their uglies. Fraser was off being a saint, so I broke into the consulate.

 

Not very nice of me, I know that. It wasn’t like I was really snooping - well, yeah, okay, so I was, but I was on a mission. I had to know everything about this guy I was impersonating, didn’t I? Vecchio. And everything about how Fraser interacted with the guy, who I was supposed to be, what Fraser expected in a partner, and, uh… that. Yeah.

 

So, like I said, first week after I was paired up with Fraser he took off for a few days. Wrapping something up, he said. Some vacation time still owing. Somehow he got it squared away with Thatcher; no matter what a hardass she is, she always eats out of his hand, in the end. I mean, have you seen him? Wouldn’t you?

 

First chance I got, when the Mounties were all squared away singing to a dying kid, I broke into Fraser’s castle. Wanted to know where he’d been the previous week. You wanna make something of it? I broke into his crib, searched his stuff, and found… well… clues.

 

The guy doesn’t have much, and I didn’t think I’d find much. His father’s journals - didn’t seem right to read them, so I didn’t. Flicked through ‘em in case anything fell out - the man was a good artist. Some detailed maps, a couple of pictures. Mainly a pretty woman holding a child. Probably Fraser and his Mum. I put the books down. Felt too personal.

 

Then, there was a box with emergency things in it, you know, disaster readiness type stuff. If Chicago ever falls to a zombie attack I’m hanging with Fraser. He’s got a storm kettle, flint and tinder, trap-lines, fishing cable, dried rations, water purifying tablets, first aid stuff, herby stuff (not drugs, I didn’t know him that well back then, so I checked - it was just natural antibiotics, stuff like that.) One fifth of whisky, which surprised me - he’d maybe use that to sterilise a wound. A basic survivalist kit. The world might fall, but Fraser will still be standing.

 

But right at the bottom of his ‘end of the world’ bag I hit pay dirt. Who’d a thought Fraser had condoms? Quite a few of ‘em. And lube. And, uh… dunno how to put this. Okay, well, butt plugs. I remember looking at them thinking they were kinda pretty, little kind of shiny bead on the end, then I realised what they were.

 

Okay, I told myself, so he’s in to a tiny bit of anal play. Doesn’t make him gay. Just makes his girlfriend kinky. Because those things weren’t just designed to be worn, they were designed to be looked at - whoever wore that thing, it wouldn’t show all day, but if he was naked and leant down and spread ‘em you’d see this little jewel thing peeking out. Bet it’s a real pretty sight.

 

Not one I’m likely to see though. I kinda stared at ‘em a while, and wondered, does he walk around wearing them all day? They’d be safely out of sight under all that uniform, underneath his starched boxers.

 

Maybe Thatcher orders him to wear the things, and squeeze his butt around it what - a hundred times an hour or something? I thought, maybe she sends him out on guard duty like that because it turns her on. “Wear the red one,” she might say. “Goes with the uniform.” Or, “the shiny blue one today. It is the same colour as your eyes.” He’d be standing guard, getting more and more turned on for her, then at the end of his shift she might make him lean over her desk so she could get a good look at it, spank him till his cheeks were pink… God, I’ve got a terrible imagination. Maybe when we’re on stakeout and we’re sitting in the car he passes the time by squeezing on a plug, turning himself on, keeping a low level buzz going. Might explain why he talks rubbish half the time. He’s distracted, half high on sex. Maybe that’s it. Maybe last time he was talking about caribou he was secretly hard and I didn’t even notice it…

 

I put everything back in his box the way I found it. Then I thought…

 

Maybe he’s got these different sized plugs because he’s working up to a dick.

 

I wondered, whose dick is it he’s chasing? Because I got kinda mixed signals. Some days I thought it was mine - other days, you know, it’s not mine at all. He’s pining for someone. That’s what I was really looking for, I suppose. I wanted to find out who Fraser was pining for.

 

I shoulda known. Minute I saw the picture on his desk. Him and Vecchio, grinning and goofing at the camera. That damn postcard, right next to the ones of Sally and the Queen. Of England I mean not Freddie Mercury, though that would have been a clue as well.

 

So, yeah. That was the first big clue. Fraser has sex toys, like every other man. Mind you, most men don’t wear butt plugs, but that still doesn’t mean he’s gay.

 

But the second clue was a ticket stub. Shredded of course, and in his waste basket, but I’m not a detective for nothing. If I’m properly motivated I can put a jigsaw together. So, I put it together and - yeah. Clue number two. The stub is for a First class ticket to Vegas. The first class was serious, right there. Normally Fraser’s thrifty. He’s known for it. Thrifty Fraser. Gives his money to the homeless, never spends it on himself. Doesn’t even pay rent, sleeps in his office.

 

But there he was, paying cash to get to Vegas ASAP.

 

And then he’s away for a week.

 

A week in Vegas.

 

Where Vecchio is Armando, and nobody’s supposed to touch that.

 

What the hell? What the hell was he doing in Vegas? Not that I can ask him. I’m not supposed to know. He got back last week, went straight to the hospital to sing Sally to her eternal rest. Today’s Tuesday. It's been three days since he saw Vecchio. He comes into the station like he’s not been up all night keeping vigil, like he’s not been missing over a week. Looks like he owns the damn place, like he’s never been away. Even smiles at me - seems sincere - ‘hello Ray,’ he says. I grunt, and he sits at my desk with a little wince.

 

Now, I’d never have noticed the wince, if it hadn’t been for the clues, only I’ve done it myself. The ‘ow, that’s tender but it hurts so good’ shuffle as you settle on a chair. Hoping nobody notices, but kinda not caring if they do. ‘Look at me, I just got laid.’ I’ve been there. Stella quite liked playing the man sometimes, and I liked to let her. She looked good with a strap-on, and she knew what to do with it. So then after the divorce - yeah, okay, so I like it. Not just with chicks either.

 

When I first met him though, I wouldn’t have thought Fraser would be into that kind of thing, nothing on his records - or Vecchio’s come to that - but then there were those butt plugs. I look at him across my desk and wonder if he’s wearing one now. The red one, I hope. That would look good on him. He’s still doing the ‘just been fucked to within an inch of my life’ wriggle - but he definitely enjoyed it. He’s looking good. Like, ‘yeah, it hurts, but oh damn, good memories.’ That must have been a hell of a good fuck, if he's still feeling it three days later.

 

So, here’s what I’ve got. Fraser’s obsessed with Vecchio. Keeps his picture on his desk. He’s a little bit kinky. He’s just been down to Vegas, against direct orders, got fucked senseless for the best part of a week, and now he’s grinning about it. Little grin. Secret grin.

 

Damn.

 

Now, don’t get me wrong. He coulda just gone down to Vegas and got fucked by anyone - but that’s not really Fraser. If he wanted to get fucked up the ass all he has to do is walk into any bar and fight them off with sticks till he finds one he wants. Or he could have asked  _me._ I’d be all over that. But no. He doesn’t do that. He has that pure as the driven snow vibe going on, and boy, I nearly fell for it. I’d have thought he was a virgin if I hadn’t read the file on Victoria Metcalf.

 

What does it say about the guy that within a week of losing his partner and being paired with me he ran off and hopped a plane to Vegas? What’s with this Vecchio anyway? Is he some kinda sex god? I’ve seen photos. He doesn’t look like a sex god. The guy’s a snappy dresser, and he’s got pretty eyes, but he’s not in Fraser’s league. Who the hell is? But then, I saw the way Fraser looked at that postcard. I saw what was written on the back for fuck’s sake. ‘Cold outside, warm me up.’ And fuck’s sake, as if all that wasn’t enough, Fraser went and got the bastard thing framed.

 

So yeah - it’s official. This is the worst Tuesday of my life. Fraser and Vecchio are doing the wild thing. Were doing the wild thing. ‘Cause it’s over, yeah? Gotta be. You can’t keep a relationship going when one of you’s undercover. Ask Stella. She knows. We tried.

 

Fraser pulls one of my files over the desk, flips it open, starts catching up on what he’s missed out on. Couple of drive by shootings, the Chinese gangs fighting the Vietnamese. While that was going on in Chicago he was in Vegas. With Vecchio doing… doing whatever they did. I know from the way he’s sitting that Vecchio did him. Did he do Vecchio back? Or is he just a bottom boy?

 

I’m pissed as all hell. Is he wearing a plug? I’d have liked to find those things out for myself.

 

And - damn it. I want to go down there to Vegas and knock Vecchio out, blow his cover, something. Because….

 

How come he gets to be the one who does Fraser? If I was telling this story it would be me.

 

I don’t know. If I was writing a list of things I wanted in life, things to make me happy before I die, right now Fraser would be number one. Followed by domestic bliss. Followed by sex - with Fraser. Lots and lots of it. Seeing what other tricks he has hidden in his box that I’d never have guessed. Followed by more sex. Followed by growing old together, waking up in bed with him alongside me.

 

Wishes are useless though. I should know that by now. When I was a kid I’d wished for the stars - I wished for Stella. And I had her - for a little while. A few years, then she was gone.

 

I’m not doing that again.

 

If Fraser wants Vecchio, then I hope he gets him. Hope the schmuk makes it out of Vegas alive, makes Fraser look that happy and mussed up for the rest of his life.

 

As for me, I’ll keep my wish list empty.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any formatting inconsistencies. My computer has been invaded, and I can scarcely see the screen for pop up adverts.


End file.
